Kiss the Rain
by keelan august
Summary: A first-person POV, set in a near-future time, complete with hearty angst


**Kiss the Rain**

_Kiss The Rain song lyrics by Billie Myers_

I reach for the phone, my hand trembling, but I withdraw at the last minute. Instead, I fish out the piece of paper from my back jeans pocket. It is well creased from countless folding and unfolding, testament to my indecision. The numbers shout at me, black and lurid and accusing. There is no name next to them but I don't need the kanji to remind me. I place the paper deliberately on the desk and smooth out the wrinkles.

It's already been a year. And one year without him has been like a drought in my heart. I wonder if he feels the same?

I won't know unless I slough off this emotional paralysis. I have to do this. Now, or I may never find the strength again.

My palms are sweat-slick, my forehead clammy. I manage to pick up the phone. My heart beats a frantic tom-tom as I stare at the buttons on the receiver. This time, I know he'll be home. Will he answer? Will he care that it's me? Involuntary fingers play traitor to my fear-clenched ego as my id takes over. I dial the numbers.

And then, his voice…

Hello. Can you hear me?

The first time. The moon was full. I remember it well. We lay together, limbs entangled, and the moon came softly stealing into the room on tentative feet. Its light bathed our bodies with a lambent glow. I listened to him breathe, our chests rising and falling in tandem. I marveled that he'd allowed me to get this far. I didn't want the night to end.

We'd only kissed and fondled hungrily before. We'd torn off our clothes in an initial frenzy of finally acknowledged need, tongues and hands and chests and lips questing for fulfillment. But then we'd locked gazes and stopped. Unsure. We dove under the sheets then, panicked and embarrassed, and we'd chuckled at our naivete. Still, in the midst of our bravado, we didn't know if we were ready to take that next, irreversible step. So we settled for the innocent, albeit naked, embrace instead.

But, after several moments of holding each other tantalizingly close, he arched against me, pressing against me, mutely inquiring. I was more than willing to respond. We moved silently, achingly. We didn't know what we hungered for but our bodies instinctively took over. It was a bittersweet dance. Even then, something in me whispered wickedly that this wouldn't last. I've been known to be the fatalistic sort.

But I ignored that sense of foreboding. How could I not? How could I focus on anything but his warm, naked flesh melding to mine, his hot mouth taking me in, his tongue swirling at secret, sensitive spots and driving me mad with lust? How could I think about anything more than his throbbing need in my hand, fascinatingly firm and soft and yielding and demanding at the same time?

Oh, gods! It was heaven on earth, my Xanadu. Being with him like that: pulsing, thrumming, thrusting, straining, gasping, filling, struggling not to scream in sheer euphoria and blazing climax.

Afterwards, we whispered promises and plans, spoke of the future into eager ears. His hair brushed, feather-soft, against my cheek as we spooned serene. I had my chance to tell him then, to divulge what I'd held in confidence for three long years. But I was weak and uncertain. And it had happened so suddenly. So I kept my silence, vowing to tell him everything the next time.

We had countless more dalliances after that night, each one more mind-shattering than the previous once we grew familiar with each other's dips and valleys. But never again did the opportunity for heartfelt confession present itself. I justified my silence by thinking that my actions spoke louder than any paltry words I could offer him. So I let my body speak for me time and time again. It seemed enough for him.

Am I gettin' through to you?

There is a hesitant hitch to my soft "hai" when he says my name, surprised. Is it such a shock, then, to hear from me? I almost let go of my courage, finger poised over the "end" button, but then he laughs softly, warmly, and I let out a sigh of relief. He sounds happy to hear from me. A smile curves spontaneously on my lips. I can't help it. It's good to hear his voice.

We exchange inconsequential pleasantries, like former classmates should, then a silence falls over us. I tamp down my unease, brush my hair impatiently from my eyes, and cradle the phone against my shoulder as I walk to the kitchen and refill my drink. He hears the clink of ice against glass and asks if I've graduated from beer to liquor.

He's teasing me.

We chuckle in companionable camaraderie.

I inquire about work, a safe subject. It is all the opening he needs. He chatters away, regaling me with tales of places I'd never see and people I'd never meet. He sounds like he's made a life for himself beyond me, beyond what we'd built for ourselves in the Academy. It tears at my heart even as I murmur the proper responses to his lively gossiping.

He stops for breath and the silence rears its awkward head again. This time, it is I who manages to overhear ambient noise in the background. It sounds muffled though, as if he has the receiver covered to mask something. My heart stutters with insecurity once more and I ask him belatedly if I am interrupting something.

It takes him a painfully long second before he says no. I am not convinced.

Hello. Is it late there? There's a laughter on the line. Are you sure you're there alone?

Graduation was meant to be a time of release, of freedom, of exultation. But to those of us with no definite goals, graduation was that dread moment when we knew life was spitting us out into the real world and was waiting to see if we would sink or swim. I feared I would fall in the former category.

He had warned me of this, had told me not to take for granted what seemed to come so easy for me. We'd even made contingency plans in case one of us did end up in this situation. We promised we'd take care of each other, no matter what. It was what best friends did, after all.

But there we were, a week after the big ceremony, and he was moving away. Without me. He'd offered to take me with him, but there was a half-hearted twist to his smile when he'd said it. I couldn't bear it. We went for coffee. We talked some more. And after all was said and done, he looked sheepish but relieved when I bravely turned him down.

"No hard feelings, koi. You deserve this. You were a far better planner than I ever was. I'd just get in your way."

So he'd gone, scribbling down a phone number on the back of our bill, exhorting me to call, to visit, to not be a stranger. Not be a stranger? Wasn't that what people said to someone they planned to make polite excuses to the next time they met? Was I being too emotional, too sensitive? Or did I really not mean that much to him after all? Doubts sprouted into fears which grew into resentment and finally leafed into despair.

I contrarily let six months pass before I rustled up the nerve to make use of that phone number. I shouldn't have given myself an ulcer over it; his machine picked up. His voice sounded so mature, so worldly already. The six months of ache and longing and stagnation for me seemed to have affected him conversely. He was alive and vigorous and apparently not missing me. Or was I reading too much in a three-sentence message? I called five more times just to make sure.

Cause I'm tryin' to explain. Something's wrong. You just don't sound the same.

He asks me to hold for a second and I hear the rasping of cloth against the receiver as he puts the phone to his chest. I close my eyes and allow my imagination to roam free, remembering that chest rubbing mine. This thought is followed by more enticing, more erotic images. I gulp down the rest of my drink and wait for my pulse to subside.

A murmuring on the other end of the line. His answering rumble. Oh, gods! I am interrupting something! My stomach sinks. I listen harder, unashamed of my attempted eavesdropping. The other voice sounds high pitched. A woman?

The knife stabs deeper in my chest.

I should have known. He is too perfect to be wasted on the likes of me. What we shared was perhaps only a fling, an experiment, nothing more. I should just be content with my memories and move on. He apparently has. I feel the pricking behind my eyes that I've become all too familiar with whenever I think of him.

My cowardice reawakens and this time I know I will hang up. But he gets back on the line, almost as if he senses my impending departure, and apologizes for the delay. I choke back my tears and respond as casually as I can. No worries, I tell him. Is he sure I haven't caught him in the middle of something?

He assures me otherwise. Is he lying? He seems so at ease with me, as if nothing is wrong. Am I the only one suffering here? I want to end this conversation before I shame myself by blurting out what should have been said a year ago. But something in me – some last vestige of pride – wants to tell him, wants him to know how I felt. Feel. Will feel forever.

I just wish he were alone. I wish we could have some privacy. I wish we were back at the Academy. It was so easy, so simple then…

Why don't you…why don't you…go outside…go outside.

"Let's go outside."

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's going to rain. Look at the sky."

"You have no sense of adventure."

"If your idea of adventure is catching pneumonia, then you are absolutely correct. I am adventure-less."

"But if we go now, we'll be alone."

"True. Because no one in their right mind would voluntarily run amuck in a thunderstorm."

"You're missing the point here. We'll be alone."

"Ah…you're right. Let's go outside."

Kiss the rain. Whenever you need me. Kiss the rain. Whenever I'm gone too long. If your lips feel lonely and thirsty. Kiss the rain and wait for the dawn.

He calls my name softly into the phone. I suppose I'd let the pause go for longer than was acceptable. Before I can formulate an appropriately nonchalant response, his tone goes somber and he asks me the dreaded questions: where have I been? Why haven't I contacted him? Did he do something wrong?

He sounds sincerely concerned. Do I confess? Do I tell him that I'd called him numerous times, but only when I knew he wouldn't be home? Do I tell him I miss him so much that the sound of his voice on his machine was all that kept me from going over the deep end? And do I tell him that the reason for my absence and obsessive, irrational behavior stemmed from fear of being rejected all over again?

He says my name once more, this time with a tinge of irritation. Even annoyed, he can make my heart hopscotch behind my ribcage. Just hearing my name from his lips sends spikes of desire shooting down my spine. Perversely, I keep silent so he can say it again.

Oh, the simple, twisted pleasures in life…

But I can't keep it up forever. He is not a tolerant man. He never was. So I open my mouth to say something – anything – if only to keep him on the phone longer. But he surprises me once again.

"I wish you'd called sooner."

His voice is quiet, forlorn, alone.

Keep in mind we're under the same sky  
And the nights, as empty for me, as for you.

If you feel you can't wait till morning  
Kiss the rain…kiss the rain…kiss the rain.

I am stunned. Is that regret in his voice? Remorse? It's so hard to tell over impersonal fiber optics and plastic. I start to pace, silently counting my steps until I reach one corner of the room then I pivot to do the same with the other three sides. A box. I live in a box. How low the glorious have fallen.

He's still talking. Words, words, words. They ping against my cochlea and traverse futilely to my synapses. It's no use. I can't make heads or tails out of them. I am too stricken by what I hoped I heard. All I can do is drown in his ocean of words, praying that I am not mistaken. Hoping that the woman in his apartment means nothing to him. Wishing that I could bet there right now and see his eyes.

Suddenly, static. I jerk in surprise and retrace my steps to where I'd had clear reception before. Nothing. Just the frustrating, nerve-wracking shushing of an interrupted signal. I rush frantically to my window, phone glued to my ear, as if being nearer to the outside will magically bring him back. I peer out and a coruscation of lightning blinds me. Thunder is not far behind. A storm? When did this happen?

But there is no rain.

I say his name over and over but all I get is electric noise. I grip the receiver in white-knuckled hand and find my throat hoarse. I stop when I realize I am screaming. So I slide bonelessly to the floor and lean against a wall. I can't hear him but there is no dial tone yet; he's still on the other end. Don't hang up. Stay a while longer. I need to know. I need to know…

Hello. Do you miss me? I hear you say you do, but not the way I'm missin' you.

I know where he lives. I could hang up right now and, in thirty minutes – ten if by train – I could be knocking down his door for the answers I need. But that would be another black mark against me. He'd want to know why I hadn't visited him if I lived so close. I could lie and say I was only visiting, but that would complicate matters.

What do they say? Something about tangled webs and deceit?

I listen to the growling of thunder and static. I stare at the empty glass that sits on my coffee table and at the bottle of half-drunk Courvoisier on the kitchen counter top. I slip into a self-induced stupor, the adrenaline rush of fear and anxiety subsiding and allowing the alcohol I'd ingested to finally take effect.

Still no dial tone; just white noise. I am filled with liquor courage and that damned fatalism. I pretend he can hear me. I begin to babble.

What's new? How's the weather? Is it stormy where you are?  
Cause I'm so close but it feels like you're so far.

I tell him everything. Slowly at first, but as my tongue loosens and my limbs go slack from relief and release, my confession tumbles out with increasing velocity. I talk into the phone, into the static. I tell him how I felt betrayed when he left. How his hasty departure had cut my heart to shreds. How I'd gathered my tattered pride around me like a beggar's cloak and tried to forget that we were nothing more than roommates.

I tell him how I'd almost thrown away his phone number several times. How I played this game with myself to see how long it would take before I broke down and actually called. How proud I was that I made it to six months. How, in those six months, I'd buried myself in menial jobs and meaningless fucks just so his face wouldn't haunt me.

I tell him that I finally did contact him. That I called hoping for reconciliation. That I felt betrayed again when all I got was his machine. Ridiculous, wasn't I? I tell him I took it as a sign from the powers that be that we were meant to be apart. And the piece of paper with his number did make it to the trash at that point. But I'd saved it at the last minute, after a night of tossing and turning and torturing myself with the memory of his warmth next to me.

I tell him how I played the masochist, moving mere minutes away from him on the off chance that we'd accidentally bump into each other at the train station or the bus stop. How my day wasn't complete unless I phoned him to listen to his machine. How my fear and pride kept me from attempting real contact.

I tell him how I lived under a cloud of insecurity and need and stupidity and regret. How I nurtured the hole in my heart for the thousands of seconds that elapsed since he last said goodbye.

Oh would it mean anything if you knew what I'm left imagining  
In my mind…in my mind?  
Would you go…would you go…kiss the rain...

"I was left to rearrange the pieces and try to fit them back into some semblance of a picture. But they all looked the same – those damned pieces! – and no matter how hard I tried, the puzzle could never get put back together. I was missing pieces. I was missing you.

If only I had told you more then. If only I hadn't waited so long.

If only I had told you then…that I…that I…"

And you'd fall over me. Think of me…think of me…think of me  
Only me...

Lightning crashes, thunder explodes. Then the rain comes. In sheets, torrents, cascades of cleansing and absolution. My mouth is dry, my soul is drained. I don't think I can say the words, even now. I am a fool.

Kiss the rain. Whenever I'm gone too long.  
If your lips feel lonely and tempted. Kiss the rain and wait for the dawn.

My head sinks to my chest. The phone is miraculously still against my ear, clenched between strained shoulder and wet cheek. It is dark. I haven't turned the lights on. I glance at the Indiglo numbers of my watch. Had it only been an hour since I started this madness? I watch the second hand sweep around the face of my Seiko…once, twice.

Wait! Is the static lessening?

I jerk up and the phone falls from my shoulder. I fumble for it, depress several buttons and wince in sympathy for his beleaguered ears. My motor skills are sadly hampered by fatigue and alcohol. So it takes precious seconds before I have the cordless where it needs to be.

It takes me a while to register. But then it hits me. There is no more static. I hold my breath and wait for him to speak, wondering if he has heard even a word of what I'd just said. In that brief nanosecond's pause, my life flashes before my eyes in a montage of B-movie sound bytes and my pulse drowns out the storm as blood pounds in my ears in hopeful anticipation.

Hello. Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Can you hear me?

He's gone.

I listen disbelievingly to the dead air that tells me we've been disconnected, wait for the inevitable tone that confirms it.

He's gone.

My hand goes slack, the phone falls from my nerveless fingers.

He's gone.

I sit in the dark for what seems like forever. My brain is numb, my body paralyzed. The storm rages on. I note absently that the light from the outer hallway that seeps in through the crack of my door is gone. I hear the opening of doors and the low susurration of my neighbors' conversations as they come out of their private worlds and complain about the power outage.

Several concerned folk knock on my door then leave when I don't answer immediately. I don't care. I don't care about anything anymore.

He's gone.

I sit for more minutes. The neighbors go back to their rooms. The rain attacks my window in sullen anger. I am a pit of desolation.

There is a knocking on my door again. Another busybody. I ignore it, but this person is persistent. The soft rapping continues insistently, unrelentingly. It must be the old woman in #433 who lost her son in a freak auto accident and who tries to mother me any chance she gets.

I wearily stand and lurch for the door. I tell myself to be patient and kind. She doesn't deserve to have my ire taken out on her. And maybe she has ramen. The door seems so far away. But I finally manage to get to it and turn the bolt. I open it.

He's here.

He's standing at my doorstep, drenched and shaking. His hair is plastered to his skull and his wool coat smells of wet dog. He is bigger than I remember, has filled out in places my mind tells me used to be slim and lithe. His lashes are spiked with rain. He smells the same.

He's here.

"What took you so long?"

I don't question how he found me. I don't ask if he came by himself. I simply stare into his eyes and search for the answer to all my unspoken hopes and fears. He stares back at me. Determined. Fearless. Certain.

I open my arms and he falls into me. It feels like he'd never left.

And I realize that sometimes, when something is real and irrevocable and true, words aren't needed at all.


End file.
